


(precursor) the two strings

by Ezfa



Category: Kubo and the Two Strings (2016)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Drama, Dreams, F/M, Forbidden Love, Fortune Telling, General, Heiress, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Prequel, Red String of Fate, Romance, Skeletons In The Closet, Thriller, before canon, early romance, farmer's son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezfa/pseuds/Ezfa
Summary: All stories have a precursor; before Kubo's, there were only two strings.





	

**(precursor)**  
**the two strings**  
**prologue**

_ _

_  
_ _(_ _L_ _isten to m_ _y tale_ ;  _listen well._ _If you must blink, do it now. Pay careful attention to everything you see and hear no matter how unusual it may seem._

_A long time ago, in the very land you step on, there was once a grand and noble warrior, eager to prove himself to the heavens. You see, from the moment he was born, Akhiro was no mere mortal; he was a god. Born from the love and sorrow nestling in the pits of his mother's tears, and possessing the bravery of the ferocious grand beast that was his father, our hero fell from the heavens when he slipped when he looked at the mortal realm beneath him in awe. But in his young age, he was not deterred, for you see, he had nothing but kindness in his heart to give; each step he took, every solitary movement that he performed did nothing short of inclining him closer to the heavens above him. As a gift, his mother sent him a beautiful golden armor; made from only the finest richest the gods of the land could produce, and she blessed it with her kiss, containing all the love from a longing mother to her only son. He fought valiantly to prove himself, for years and years he fought across the ends of the earth, battling monsters and demons; all slaughtered beneath the sheath of his glistening sword. He was so close to his destiny, and his heart swelled with the prospect of finally reaching the heavens with his family._

_Akhiro was prepared for anything, he would often tell himself. Underneath his very demi-god exterior, underneath the flesh and bone that temporarily sealed him a very human like state, therein beat the heart of a true warrior. But nothing prepared of what had to come; of the very obstacle he would face in order to finally seal his destiny. Our valiant hero pressed forward; through the harsh snow and the gust of winds, he started to ascend to the heavens. But something held him there, right at the tip of the grounds where his feet touched and before he could take in what was happening, he realized his open and very vulnerable position. He turned, absolutely startled as to who would even think on interrupting this momentous and glorious occasion; there was a burning in his chest, you see, and his eyes only widened at the sight before him._

_It was… It was—)_

* * *

“Your mind is elsewhere, daughter.”

The low muting hum surges through the ends of her body, guiding its' way from her small wiggling toes to her chest, until even the ends of her hair wave around with the energy. The stark chill of the atmosphere brings her further to, and her vision blurs with the weight of all the colors known to exist in the realm. Beautiful blues, stark yellows, blinding varying shades of purple and even white swirls all around; it all deepens the dull pigment under her eyes, indicating her exhaustion, enhancing the _dullness_ in her eyes, especially in her left amblyopiac eye. _A sickly child,_ is what her father would often say in a pitying voice; what she often heard as he lulled her with a quaking lullaby, — _no more fit to be a star than the dullest piece of dirt from the mortal re_ _a_ _lm._ Somewhere, in the far distance she can still hear the soothing voices, so much unlike theirs; so full of _something_ _foreign_ and _alien_ , and the seven year old child cannot comprehend why and she is only filled with an ache in her chest. But then she hears her father calling out her name once more.

“ _Sariatu_ — _look_ at me.” The cold steel clamp of his lengthy fingers never fail to send a shiver down the course of her spine; indeed, her father holds a very powerful wave of magic that she knows, even in her young age, to be weary of. Smooth finger pads stroke her cheek gently and any trace of hesitance quickly vanishes from her head, and the pain lessens. Becoming aware of her surrounding and out of her reverie, the little girl nearly stumbles, though her father makes no movement in helping her, letting his hand fall from her face; beckoning her with a look, instead, to raise herself in his presence. He knows she is intuitive, and beneath his thick lashes and cold neutral face, there is a smidgen of doubt laying beneath his slight brow crease, but he waits patiently for the girl to finally become self aware. Her eyes locks with those of her father's. There is no color in his eyes; foggy like a stormy night without a hint of sunshine. “Where you wandering, again?” There's a knot forming in her throat, and she resists in trying to obstruct the path by swallowing; it'll make it worse, and surely raise her father's ire. _A proper young lady musn't lie nor must she face the face of truth with a fleeting animal's cowardice,_ words she has to abide to under his law.

“Y-yes baba… I… I was-”

“Do not _mumble,_ Sariatu. _Where_ where you?” Though his words are firm, echoing beyond the winds and throughout the night skies across her home, there's an underlying tone of them; he wants a straight answer, and _now._ But... the little girl truly doesn't know how to answer, and her lips quiver in uncertainty. Like a dream, her wanderings, her _visions_ quickly fade until she is left with nothing but the intensity of the feeling. More often than not, that feeling is _longing_ and the little girl yearns for whatever fantasy, or _nightmare,_ she endured the moment her eyes closed. Perhaps it's the fact that only when her father fuels the full moon in its entirety, gracing its heavenly form across the lands of the mortal realms, can she really let herself wander away to.. to … she doesn't even _know._ She doesn't do it on purpose, and before anything, she voices this clearly with almost frantic gestures, desperate for her father to understand.

Raiden says nothing towards his only daughter, instead his own mind conjuring up another set of thoughts altogether. He knows that she is at unease with his silence; the girl is too timid, which in retrospect, is a _good_ thing. But she is no mere mortal, and the fact that she behaves like one upsets him and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Finally after a pensive pause, he nods once. “I see...” Even without focusing too much, Sariatu's distress is not at all hard to miss; he can feel it radiating in waves. Literally, quite heavy and a pushing force against his own thin frame. She may have been a withered little bud now, but it's moments like these where the moon king knows that she is anything _but_ fragile.

But it's her _eye,_ that holds her back.

History is bound to repeat itself, that much he knows is inevitable. But for all his power and all his ruling over the heavens, he knows there is only so _much_ he can do to attempt and fix his little girl, to make her _perfect_. To make her  infinite. She has always shown signs of.. _weakness_ , and he wonders if it's the price he must endure for his past mistakes. He's always tried and reasoned with himself that he's _been_ paying for his past sins; but why must his offspring suffer? He turns to her, all too suddenly, and she tilts her head slightly in confusion at the look he is giving her; intense and focused. Her father's form hovers close, and he is at eye level. When she feels the coldness of her father's fingertips upon her porcelain skin, she leans into his hand bowing slightly. His thumb hovers close to her left eye socket, and something clenches in her chest as the edge of his finger seeps through the socket, forcing the eyeball to slightly budge to make room for the intrusion. The feeling is not comfortable, but Sariatu only tenses and doesn't utter one complaint.

“This… _eye_ of yours...” he mutters, “thissss _wandering_ eye...” A small hiss escapes him as he pushes further and further slightly with every single word he emphasizes. Managing to make a small dry spot on the orb, he presses on her actual eye instead and instinctively, she flinches, but Raiden grips her cheek tighter. His face is focused, and his brow is furrowed as his attention is slowly on the wandering brown iris. He wants her to _look_ at him, and he nearly _seethes_ when the brown orb seems to look at anywhere _else_ but him.

“B-baba… _please…_ _mm i-it_ _hurtsss_ _!”_ Her voice, barely above a whisper, cracks from the sheer discomfort and vulnerability of having her eye so open and prodded at. Tears are starting to form, and sit in wait on the edge, glistening as pale and luminous as the moon itself. Soon enough, as if her voice had snapped him out of whatever trance he was in, the intrusion makes itself scarce, leaving her eye watering and twitching. The smooth pad of his thumb instead grazes over the skin of her lid and under her eye, harder with each stroke; the blunt end of his nail presses even further, and he drags it down in a mix of a painful and soothing gesture, creating a severe visible injury, until finally, he closes her eye.

As a celestial being, even one as young as hers, there is no physical repercussion such as blood, save for the scar made by the touch of the Moon King himself. But the pain is there, and Sariatu finds herself stiff as a stone, biting her lip in the pain and the fear. Hesitantly, with her father's hand still over her eye, she looks at him. His whisper carries over to her, in the small vicinity they share, and gently, she grabs his wrist, listening. “Now; you are _perfect._ ”

She doesn't understand, but she says nothing to indicate the fact.

Almost as if now _he_ is the one wandering, his own gaze is distant; faraway and unfocused. He strokes her cheek, once more, and gently. He knows that the damage is only temporary; but the scar, however unintentional, is not. It's a reminder to her, _to himself_ that his daughter has yet to reach the pinnacle of her full potential. In due time, she will learn control and for his errors, he will make them up. He gets up, after the long enduring moment, “Oh, daughter of mine...” Collecting himself, and upon feeling the breeze withering past the hem of his robes and through his beard, he gracefully sits at the edge of what now forms a ledge. He pats the space next to him, indicating her to come close. The view is spectacular, though redundant, as their entire world is a view in its own right. After a moment, left eye shut but still with all the bounce in her step, she takes the up the space next to him, huddling somewhat with uncertainty against her father. Against the very Moon King himself.

“I… I worry about you, daughter.” His surprisingly soft voice nearly lulls her once more, and almost instinctively, does she nuzzle against the soft fabric of his robes. The fireflies shine stark yellow against the dark blues of the night and- _she realizes,_ that they all seem to be in their _own_ dreams; surreal creatures wandering against all odds just to _enjoy_ themselves, and being the silly little girl that she is, she wishes she could be one. “You have an independent mind; smart and intuitive. But you, little girl~” She slightly tumbles back as she feels the slight _thwack_ of her father flicking her forehead. “-don't take advantage of. That. Mind.” With each emphasis of the words, the flicks become more incessant, and Sariatu giggles. He lets himself smile at the sound of her voice. — _Ah, there she is. There's that laugh, my little girl._ Her birth hadn't been the best of times for celebration, but he knows that for the price, his daughter is worth it. After a chuckle himself, their attention is back on the vast, beautiful lands before them.

“Baba,” her small voice peers through the comfortable silence. “Are you still mad? That I… that I could...” _—That I can_ _see_ _;_ _that my eye is_ _imperfect_ _._ but the words go unheard; stuck within the back of her windpipe and burning at the edge of her tongue. Her distress is made clear once more, and for a moment, she looks to be on the verge of an emotional collapse. Such a troubled mind for such a small span of life. “I didn't _mean_ it, baba, honest! I.. I _felt_ something bu-but I… it was _away_ from me...” Her focus seems strangled, and in all truth, _concerning._

However, being of his position, of who _he is,_ Raiden does not interject until she seems to be verge of tears. He holds up a hand, signifying her to halt and she does. His gaze drifts back to the scenery before him, and he nudges her slightly for her to do the same. “No one said it was going to be easy, daughter. You are destined to be so much more than what you make yourself out to be, I know; I can _feel_ it.” His words are kind; heavy with wisdom and experience and Sariatu clings on to his guidance desperately. “Your eye is merely an obstacle,” he is seen, for a moment, stricken with the rage of a harsh storm, but it is gone before the little girl can fully comprehend his look. “A test, and I will make it right.” She doesn't understand, not fully and not at this time, at least, but she _knows_ that what her father speaks is of nothing than the truth. “Magic,” his voice echoes, and stardust and cosmos weave together before her, in her father's very own hands, materializing from yellow and orange lights brighter than any of the lights present in her home she has ever seen, is an instrument with strings. A very peculiar sight to her, and it is the slim neck that she focuses on first, gradually working her way down to the white, hollow base —and finally, settling on the three golden strings. “-is not supposed to be easy, daughter.” His hands handle the instrument beautifully, and after a moment, a firefly is molded in his fingers creating a _bachi,_ and he strings the shamisen.

It is the most beautiful sound she has ever heard.

“But when _controlled_ ; you have the _universe_ in your very hands.” He looks up, and his smile widens at her gaze; full of life and with all the wonders a small child can have. Stars are in her one, _good_ eye and he can see her small hands all but shaking in amazement. Like she has just seen the wonders of the universe. And Raiden thinks that, in this very moment, she _ha_ _s._ And nothing makes him happier. Knowing, that _she,_ is happy; she is _impeccable_. He strums it once more, but this time, as if to show the prowess of his previous statement, a wave of bright blue emits from them, _surges_ together, as one and into the valley below and engulfs it into a beautiful wondrous light. “You are powerful, daughter. You are a shining _star;_ you just need to open yourself to the possibilities. _”_ As if to prove this to her, he hands her the instrument gracefully.

Sariatu, however, is anything _but_ graceful when she handles the foreign object in her small hands. She gives a helpless, yet joyful look to her father who only nods in encouragement. Forgetting any previous instance of her bad eye, or of her wandering from the kingdom in her dreams, her only focus on this beautiful shamisen. As if the wind itself was knocked out her small windpipe, she forces out a shaky breath and holds up the bachi is such an exaggerated manner. The object is much too wide for her to grasp properly, and it slips a little, but the energy flows through her nonetheless, and she closes her eyes in the sheer overwhelming feeling of it all. And finally, she brings her hand down, strumming it. The desired effect is lost too easily. She gave too much energy, in her excitement and in her joy, but the _prowess_ itself is sheer grandeur, and though it goes unnoticed by her, Raiden's eyes widen at the display. The whole valley, and beyond some, in enraptured in bright blue and erratic yellows. At the absence of commentary, the moon princess automatically assumed she has committed another monstrous error, she hesitantly looks to her father's face, unsure of what to make of his silence. “Baba… I… I'm sorry… I didn't...” Tears prickle at the edges of her eyes, both of them. “I.. I'll do better next time, I s-swear… please don't be mad...” _Do I upset him so much?_

Against all odds, even like this, the girl has the lunacy to think so little of herself. But she is only a child, and the Moon King reminds himself that only _time_ can truly fix this mess. His eyes softly peer at her, and he smiles gently, chuckling at her panic. “Oh, Sariatu; you truly are a remarkable, _perfect_ child.” He would make sure of it, he would do right by her even if it's the last thing he ever did as his duty in the heavens. He makes a motion for her to hand him back the shamisen, and instructs her thoroughly. “You must keep your nerves at bay; calmness and patience are your allies, feel the hum of strings surge through you and let it flow. And _never,_ dear girl, must you blink. Not even once..” He holds his own hand up again, and strings the instrument with a powerful force. It bleeds onto the valley, taking on a much more calming but intense blue, surely to affect the earth.

— _for if you do, remember, you have only so much to recollect yourself before you are stricken down._

* * *

 “ _Motherrrrr,_ ” cries out a whiny voice, “—and _then_ what happened?! What was his grates obstacle?”

“ _Oh for the love of—_ Child, if you keep whining like a battered ox, I swear to the heavens I will-”

The boy held absolutely no sympathy for his mother's complaint's over his own; she had begun a tale, knowing full well how much those very tales ignited _life_ within him. Stories of brave warriors and quests, proving to everyone how much of a hero they are and gaining absolute tremendous power gifted from the gods themselves were at the pinnacle of his joy. His mother knew of the twelve year old's fascination, and yet she skillfully and not-so-subtly never finished the tales she spun with her witty words and faraway gaze, like it was amusing to her to see the crestfallen look on his face when she abruptly cut off on the last line. “You can't _do_ this to me! You can't just _not finish_ what you started!”

Kameyo was a humble looking, yet pretty woman without so much as an indication of age. However, she knew, certain as the moon would rise from the depth of it's dark cove to rise for the earth to bask in every night, that her son would pile more years the more he whined to her. Seeing as Hanzo is already twelve, she's surprised her head isn't full of gray and green hairs by this point. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she instead glares harshly at her son who, to be frank, doesn't put the least put off nor any less discouraged by the effect despite the circumstances. As it was, the two figures were right under the moon's watch; the pitch black skies' illumination rose from the half moon itself, and the various jewels of white scatted like a blanket. Though one star shone starkly, too close to the moon as if it's accompanying it. Her eyes are nearly blinded by the sight, however she basks under the night; unlike most people, she had taken a fancy to the night in particular. If only because it's her son's favorite time of the day. She is close to crackling a smile, and eventually, she shakes her head. “Oh hush boy; I was only saving the second half of the story for another time. Besides, I have a feeling you wouldn't exactly fancy the ending.” At this, his eyes widen at this new information, and she realizes her mistake; though it is too late before she can even offer another word.

“D-does Akhiro _die?_ What is his downfall? What can beat a warrior so great and powerful?! _Mother!_ ” The boy stops his chore of twisting the cloth, ridding it of the water; he swishes it around in a dramatic motion, not caring or concerned in getting them both wet.  
She suppresses a groan and shuts her eyes, briefly praying to the heavens for mercy. “ _Hanzo,_ ease it there child! At the rate you're going, you're going to give yourself a heart attack,” _and myself,_ she mumbles the last part. “Besides – why is it so bad that he dies? All stories come to an end. Heroes are no less susceptible to that rule than any other mortal _and would you_ _stop_ _swinging that around?! It's your father's, young man!”_ She yanks the robe from his grip and shakes her head.

“He can't just… just.. _die_ like that!”

She raises a slim brow at that, though her attention is more focused on her chore than it is on this delusional boy. “Oh, really? How does that go, I wonder?”

“I… I just mean, _if he's going to_ _die_ _,_ then it _must_ be because of honor, right? Did he die protecting his men? How about that he was against this giant blood thirsty _beast!_ ” he lets out a very exaggerated gasp, as if discovering the wonders of the universe and his eyes light up to prove it. “ _I know!_ He _sacrificed_ himself to protect the world, right? That's _gotta_ be it!” His voice is so full of energy, so _sincere_ and genuinely _excited_ at the prospect that one of his heroes is just that; a hero. Something that, in his mind, is the pinnacle of someone's honor. With all the youth and energy in the world, Hanzo refused to be _just_ a simple fisher's son, or a farmer's son. Ever since he could remember, the stories of those before him, of warriors and demi-gods that no sooner showed their worth to the world by their sheer effort alone had been something he could relate to; something he aspired to be when the _truth_ of _his_ story is a sad one. His charisma is a trait that he and only he can possess. Kameyo doesn't know where he got the trait from, and she doubts it's from his father; the hard working fisherman is as visual and creative as the fish he catches, and he never once truly appreciated his boy's antics, deeming them instead as childish and nonsensical. She, of course, disagrees entirely; her child is special, and she knows that his destiny would be made of grandeur and stardust. Her own family had always been so much less inclined on legends and lore, much like her husband's; but her own fascination had never been diluted. Though it didn't change the fact that she had to turn away that little part within her, as women are not meant to have dreams or to pursue anything out of being _productive._ So to see it so vividly on her offspring had been a true blessing.

“Heroes, my son, come in all different forms. It isn't all about obtaining a sword, or ascending to the heavens. It's about what's in the confinements of your _soul_ , of who you _are_ and what you choose to be.”

“Yeah, I _know_ that part, mother.” Though he indicates, clear as day, she as a mother knows that he doesn't; but she hears him out anyway. He shrugs, grabbing another cloth and scrubbing vigorously; the shine in his eyes never leaving his irises. “But what is a hero without his sword, his armor?” She shakes her hide, sighing ever so slightly and ready to repeat her point before she is beaten to it.

“Absolutely fictitious and barbaric.” The intrusion startles them both, and sure enough behind them stands Hanzo's father, Hayato. The man stands firm and his eyes are hard as steel; working for all of his fifty two years, he's never once taken kindly to those out in the battlefield. It would be the day pigs fly that he would even churn his chin in the direction of fictional legends. “Wife, why are you reiterating these silly stories to the boy? He has enough creativity on his mind to last him at least two other lifetimes; he doesn't need encouragement.” Their heads remained bowed, though Kameyo meets her husband's gaze, and pleads silently to not deter their son further. At least not for tonight; it's the most she can do. Thankfully, he recedes and instead of scolding Hanzo, he asks him about trivial matters; what specific fishes are being demanded in their village and what he thinks they should do about it. His father is always pushing him to be a smart business man, and soon enough it would be his turn to guide the family and their finances. The discomfort is obvious on the boy's face, but he knows he has to uphold his familiar duty. Eventually, Hayato turns himself for the night, making it an obvious to point that he must have his clothes ready for he is to head out early. The silence that follows is nearly deafening, and her spirit is nearly crushed when he sees the look on his face; not sad, but dispirited.

“Your father has only the best interest for you, my son.” It's all she can manage to really say, though she knows that the words bring him little to no comfort. It breaks her. His only response is to nod solemnly. His eyes are elsewhere, and the faint buzzes from the nightly bugs are all that fill the void of wretched silence; so she tries again. “You know, your—“ But something stops her; the sound of feet grinding against the dirt in an abrupt motion startles her into a daze, and she is left with the sight of her only son looking, for all the world to see, like something is quite literally on his shoulders. His eyes are screwed shut, and his fists are clenched, and, if she peers closely, he is shaking ever so slightly.

“ _Mother,_ ” his tone is laced with finality, but the ferocity is what worries her, “I wish to be a samurai..!” And it's in this moment, that Kameyo truly finds out the determination of her son. It's a breeze that hits her like the autumn winds. Her throat nearly clenches, she is ashamed that she cannot feel anything else but an overwhelming sense of guilt. He is waiting for her approval, of all things, and she doesn't know how to handle such situations. “Why can't father _see_ that? See that I am _not.._ I can't _just…_ I _don't want to be_ _just_ _a fisherman._ ” His voice is desperate, at his wits end and for someone so _young._ “I don't want to be forgotten; I don't want my story to end, mother.” In their culture and customs, it is absolute weakness for a man to cry; and she thanks the heavens that her boy is only that, a _child._

Her lip nearly trembles at her son's distress. “Hanzo… Hanzo look at me.” He does so, and she drops the cloth ruthlessly into the bucket of water, uncaring for the state of its' cleanliness. She wipes the stray hairs from his face, beckoning his gaze to her. “Oh, my son… your story will never end.”

He doesn't understand, but he does nothing to indicate that fact. He's always been a dreamer, and by the heavens he swore that one day... _one day_ he was going to be something. Not just what _he is_ , but beyond what the eye could see. Whenever he traveled to the village to sell fish, and as he spun tales purely from imagination and improvisation, people would always give him strange looks; but there was always that _one_ person that would look on in wonder, and through that connection, the young boy _knew_ that he isn't the only one made from stardust. He wants to make a name for himself; he can _feel_ that there's something out there, waiting, and the excitement gets to the point of absolute _itchiness_ beneath the layers of his skin. But the fact is that his eagerness for grandeur isn't solely for him. It's for his entire family, but for a young man his age, he can't help but wonder if it's part of the reason nobody can take him seriously.

Kameyo slowly strokes her son's cheek, and she offers a very small smile. “Do you want to know what it was that stopped Akhiro from his pre-destined fate? What it was that even a mighty warrior like him was no match to?” She can tell the confusion from her son's brown eyes, wondering why she would bring that in an intimate conversation and hesitantly, he nods.

“It was _love._ ”

It's as if the sadness and heartache from before dries right on the spot, and he tilts his head in even more confusion and, to her surprise, indignation. “L- _love?_ What kind of lame out turn is _that?!”_ Perhaps not the wisest choice of words, as he has no time to duck the oncoming _thwack_ on the back of his head. “ _Ow_ _! What did_ _I_ _do?!”_

“Young man, _love_ is not such a strange concept! Love is what brings families together – it is the very foundation of people!”

He rubs the sore spot. “Yeah but… _love?_ How did _love_ stop someone like Akhiro?” He confirms now more than ever that he is indeed, just a child, and Kameyo cannot feel anything but undulated warmth for her son.

“He had a choice to make; his heart, or his destiny.”

For Hanzo, the choice is an obvious one, but given the strange and wise gleam in her mother's eye, he has a gut feeling that _maybe_.. just _maybe_ he still has much to learn on what it really means to be something greater. But the thought sits in the back of his mind like a disturbance, and he wants desperately now more than ever to just be _right._ He wants to ask his mother about his father, about his _dream_ , and what the story of Akhiro has anything to do with him besides posing as entertaining lore and why she felt the need to bring it up out of seemingly nowhere. But almost as if the heavens themselves have had enough of their entire conversation, thunder is heard. Both figures nearly jump, and his mother seems to have said _something,_ but another, more frightening thunder _booms_ even louder. “It seems the heavens aren't too keen on this night,” he manages to hear his mother, “come, Hanzo. Dump the pail of water and your butt inside. I don't want you getting sick. You have fish to sell tomorrow.” And as he does so, a random jab nearly blinds him in his left eye. He rubs the nuisance until his eye gets slightly swollen and watery.

His mind goes to a wonderland of stardust and warriors when he slumbers.


End file.
